Vellum and Morocco
by pindergast
Summary: Sherlock and John have taken up a case in America to investigate an enigmatic serial killer. Amidst the baffling clues, suspects, and incomprehensible American customs, there is an underlying sense of familiarity with one of the witnesses... Second installment of the 'Side of the Angels'.
1. Chapter 1

**Vellum and Morocco**

**Chapter 1**

_"Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning."_

_-Winston Churchill_

* * *

Sherlock Holmes snaked his way through the seemingly endless rows of luggage and suitcases, all being somewhat moderated by their owners. There were many instances in which his own bag was knocked to the floor by an ignorant passenger, causing both participants to glare at each other. After much careful maneuvering, he found his designated seat, and John Watson followed him.

"You would think—" John tried to speak, but lost his balance as he tried to store their bags in the upper compartment, "You would think, that after all of this, your brother would have gotten us a better…" he motioned to the rest of the cramped plane, "…arrangement."

"I agree that this is utterly proletarian, but it was last-minute."

"First class would have been nice."

"He's punishing us—well, me."

"I think he's just happy that you agreed to all of this."

"The fact that this was a nine was the only reason I did."

John sighed. "Eight hours on a plane," he drawled.

"And we land in America—hardly any consolation."

* * *

Sherlock thought back to the day before, when Mycroft told him about the case in America. It had been nearly a week after Sherlock came back from the dead, but that didn't stop Mycroft. He called him in the morning after he texted his brother. Sherlock entered his office with obvious irritation.

"I've only been back for one week, and here you expect me to take on a case, just like that?"

"Oh, stop. I know that after a week of twiddling your thumbs—"

"And in America, of all places…you think that that's going to incline me to go?"

"Don't be so hasty. Why don't you listen to what I have to say?"

Sherlock glared at his brother. He wasn't in the mood to argue, so he sat in a chair opposite of Mycroft with no intention of listening.

"As you know, I have connections all over the world," he began. Sherlock scoffed.

Ignoring him, Mycroft continued, "You don't keep up with world news, do you?"

"I try to avoid it."

"Sacramento, California…heard of it?"

"Sounds familiar. Mycroft, really, I _don't care_."

"The city has seen a recent increase in homicides. The police are nearly positive that it's a serial killer."

Sherlock perked up, but immediately turned his head, trying to appear indifferent.

"Sacramento is the capital of California, and the governor, Walter Hale, has asked for _your _assistance."

"What?"

"One of his dear friends was a victim of these crimes, and he wants to apprehend whoever is responsible."

Sherlock pondered this. "Why me?"

Mycroft laughed, "Your indifference is amusing, Sherlock, but you must have noticed a change in the way the media treats you...and the public, at that. America has gotten word of the brilliant detective who faked his own suicide here in London. News spreads quickly."

"So, the governor wants me to take the case…tell him I'm _flattered_, but I'm busy," Sherlock said sarcastically.

"Do you realize how important this is?" Mycroft leaned forward in his chair, "The _governor of California_ is asking for _your _help. You really shouldn't be hesitating."

"I'm not hesitating…I'm refusing."

"Is this because you don't want to go to America?"

Sherlock paused, studying his brother's incredulity, "I will admit, it's not much motivation."

Just then, the door behind them opened, and John entered. After closing it behind him, he looked at the scene, his brow furrowed.

"I got here as fast I could," he sounded out of breath.

"There was no need to rush, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said casually.

John walked forward and stood behind Sherlock, "Sherlock—he said there was an emergency…"

"Yes. My brother is shipping me off to America."

John grinned slightly, "What, really?"

"I've offered Sherlock a case in California—a serial killer—but he has refused," Mycroft said, still looking at Sherlock. "I'm assuming you asked John to come to convince _me _that you can't go."

"A trip to America?" John mused. "I'm in."

"What?" Sherlock turned to face him. "Why?"

"Sounds like fun. Beside the fact that…you know," he coughed, "…people have…died…"

"Don't encourage Mycroft, John," Sherlock said, "I'm not going."

"Would you like some incentive?"

"I don't need it, no."

Mycroft pulled out a few files from his desk drawer and read them aloud.

"First victim, Ronald Griffin, 54, was killed one week ago. His body was found on the railroad tracks…stabbed 12 times."

Sherlock nodded, "Are you trying to make this sound intriguing?"

"Second victim, Freda Cain, 79, was killed a few days ago. Found in her home with a horrendous wound in the back of the head."

John cringed.

"Third victim—"

"How do they even know that these are serial killings?"

"Third victim," Mycroft continued, ignoring him, "Allan Carr, 46. Found on the shore of the Sacramento River. Drowned…witnesses say that he was fishing."

"Mycroft…_how do they know what these are_?"

His brother looked up from the papers. He then pulled out another stack of paper from his drawer and handed them to Sherlock. "These were found at each crime scene."

Sherlock scanned the photos quickly and handed them to John. "Coincidence."

John rifled through the photos, "Sherlock, these don't look—"

"Coincidence," he demanded.

"These were at three different scenes. They are, without a doubt, connected."

Sherlock peered at the photos again. Each photo was of the victim's hand, clutching a piece of paper.

"What was on the paper?"

"All of them were different. The man on the railroad's said '42'. The old woman's said '77'. The man in the river's said '565'. They're not sure how the numbers are connected."

Sherlock nodded. He had to admit that it was strange. "Even if it's a serial killer, the MOs don't match."

"And here's, perhaps, the strangest part. Everyone who found the bodies noted that they remembered the distinct smell of leather at each scene. 'Dusty and old', some said. I should also note that all of the bodies were found not long after they were killed…any ideas?"

"Three."

"Then what do say?"

Sherlock sighed. John slapped him on the back, "Come on. America isn't _that _bad. And this case sounds right up your alley."

"Have you ever been to America?"

"…No."

"Then you shouldn't speak from experience."

"Have you been there?"

"…No."

"Then you shouldn't speak from experience."

After much negotiation, John and Mycroft convinced the reluctant Sherlock to take the case. They made arrangements to leave that night. Sherlock and John then went back to Baker Street to pack.

"I can't believe we're going…" Sherlock droned morosely.

"Try to be a little optimistic, will you? Maybe it'll be fun."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't hold too much hope."

* * *

John looked out the window as the London skyline disappeared behind them. They didn't know how long they would stay in California—it depended on how the case progressed. They planned on at least one week.

He saw Sherlock going over the case information that Mycroft had given him. Both of them wouldn't admit that they had no idea what was going on. Sherlock didn't have three theories. He was lucky to have one.

_This will certainly be blog-worthy. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_"We keep moving forward, opening new doors, and doing new things, because we're curious and curiosity keeps leading us down new paths."_

_-Walt Disney_

* * *

_Four hours. It's only been four hours…_

Sherlock had never experienced such a monotonous experience, and it had only been four hours.

He seemed to be the only one who was still awake. The plane was void of all sound and movement—even John was fast asleep.

He pulled out the case files again to keep himself occupied. But when he had put them away earlier, he must have done it sloppily. Several papers slid out of their folders and into the aisle. He looked around, and it didn't seem to wake anyone.

He bent down to reach for them, but before he could pick them up, another hand came down and did it for him. Sherlock immediately looked up to see who the hand belonged to. He recognized him from the airport, but didn't make a point to remember him. He was about 40, with light brown hair and tan skin—average.

Sherlock glared at him when the man began to look at the papers. When he saw Sherlock's reaction to this, he handed them back.

"Here you go," he grinned. "You know, these look pretty important. Better keep these in a safer place."

_American…west coast. On his way home from England for—business. Divorced, two kids, but the wife took custody. Smoker, trying to quit, but failing miserably. _

When Sherlock didn't say anything, the man nodded his head walked away. As he left, Sherlock muttered a short 'thank you'.

* * *

Sherlock spent the remainder of the flight reviewing the files, but came up with nothing. When John woke up—well, when Sherlock woke him up—he asked for his opinion in desperation. Neither of them had any theories. They decided that they needed to investigate.

When the plane landed, Sherlock rose to gather his luggage and left, leaving John to fend for himself. As Sherlock headed for the baggage claim, he accidentally bumped into the man he saw earlier. Then man nodded apologetically before stopping, "Well, we just keep tripping over each other, don't we?" he smiled kindly.

"Yes, so it seems," Sherlock said irritably.

"Oh, you're from England? In that case, welcome to America."

Sherlock glanced down at the bag the man was carrying. His name was printed on a tag.

"And welcome home, Mr. Caraway," Sherlock said, trying to sound impressive. He left Caraway with a bewildered, and slightly concerned, expression.

He found John lost in the airport, obviously trying to find either Sherlock or the baggage claim.

"Sherlock!" he yelled, sounding agitated.

"Let's just get our bags and leave," he said simply as they left in the right direction. He was ready to leave this place.

Once they retrieved everything, they headed out to the parking garages. Mycroft had told them that he arranged a rental car for them. He only provided a picture and the keys.

"Well, then..." John said as they looked at the expanse of cars scattered across the multi-level complex.

After the mindless wandering and beeping car alarms, it took them nearly thirty minutes to find the correct car. They saw that the windshield bore a cheap American flag.

"How nice."

Sherlock asked for the keys, "I'll drive."

John rolled his eyes as Sherlock opened the car's right-hand door. John opened the left door and climbed in. When Sherlock sat down, his hands were poised to handle a steering wheel, but he could only grab a fistful of air. He turned to John's side of the car, and saw that the steering wheel was on the other side.

"John…" Sherlock said.

"Yeah?"

"There's something wrong with this car…."

John held out his hand, and Sherlock gave him the keys.

"Do you not know _anything _about America?" he asked as he started the car.

"Well, apparently _you _do."

"Come on. This is basic stuff. American cars have the wheel on the left side."

"What else do they do? Drive on the wrong side of the road?" he said in jest.

"Actually…" John said as he drove out of the parking complex. He turned onto the right side of the road and left the airport.

"John."

"What?"

"John, what are you doing?"

"I'm driving."

"You're driving on the—what are you doing?" he exclaimed as a car passed them on the left side.

"Americans drive on the right side of the road. So does most of the world."

"Dear God…" he murmured as he saw more cars driving recklessly on the wrong side of the road.

"John."

"Shut up."

"Mycroft said that he wants us to meet the governor when we arrive."

"Wh—you want to follow your brother's orders?"

"No, but I think that it's the most logical approach. We should figure out why we're here."

"O-Okay, but…how do we do that?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well…I've never actually been to Sacramento. How do we know how to find the governor?"

Sherlock seemed to ponder this. "I assume that we look for some sort of colonial, very American- looking building surrounded by men in white stockings and powdered wigs."

* * *

Eventually, with the help of several locals and not much help from confusing road signs, they found the Capitol building. It was colonial, as Sherlock predicted. John thought it was amazing, but Sherlock shrugged and made no further comment.

As they walked to the front steps, a group of men in black suits came outside and escorted them inside. John was obviously inspired by the incredible architecture and artwork of the building as they walked through the front doors. Sherlock, though he wouldn't admit it, was also impressed. It was stunning.

The floors were marble, as were most of the walls. Further inside was a massive rotunda, lined with intricate molding and murals. There were endless rows of marble columns and stairwells. He saw a balcony sitting above them, and if one were to look down, you could see a large sculpture of Queen Isabella centered on black-and-white checkered floors. As they continued walking, they came to a set of double doors. They were surrounded by black marble and two flags—America and California. A bronze statue of a bear was guarding the doors.

Sherlock and John were led into the room. It looked like a conference room, with a round table in the center and chairs surrounding it. At the end of the room was a desk, where a man with white hair was sitting.

When the man saw them enter, he stood. "Mr. Holmes, I presume?"

"Governor Hale," Sherlock said politely. They shook hands. "It's an honor, sir."

Hale's eyes were slightly red and bloodshot. "I'm glad you're here, Mr. Holmes. And, you must be his…" he held out his hand to John.

"Assistant," John said, shaking his hand. "John Watson."

"Good to meet you both. Sit down," he motioned to the chairs before them.

"We mean no disrespect, sir, but we've been sitting for eight hours. I think we'd rather stand, if that's alright," Sherlock said. John was surprised by his improved manners.

"Of course. Now, is there anything you want to know about the case before we begin?"

"Actually, before we get into that, I'd like to know why you asked for _me_," Sherlock asked.

"Ah, yes. Well, I'm sure you know news of your little suicide scheme spread quickly, along with your reputation.

"My friend, Allan Carr, fell victim to this murderer. We knew each other since we were kids…" he trailed off. "Our police department hasn't made much progress, and they're getting desperate. I figured that you were the best man for the job. I got in touch with your brother, who I've dealt with before, and the rest is history."

Sherlock nodded. "It seems that you were close to Mr. Carr. Could you tell me more about him?"

"Well, I don't know anything that would help you—"

"You would be surprised with what little details can do, sir."

Hale nodded. "Well, he's a local—lived in Sacramento his whole life. He has a wife and a son. No family troubles. He owned his own fishing shop on the river. He loved fishing…maybe _obsessed _is a better word."

"Obsessed?"

"Yeah. It was all he would talk about sometimes. He kept a log of which fish he caught. He would determine what kind of equipment was best for the river. He recently bought a new boat, too. It was _at least_ twenty thousand dollars. You could say that he was obsessed."

Sherlock made a mental note of this. "Do you know of the circumstances in which the body was found?"

He took a deep breath. It was obvious that he was still grieving. "You'd have to talk to the detective in charge of the case. I don't have that kind of information."

"Could you direct us to him?"

"Sure. I'll have you escorted to the precinct," he said as he motioned for the men behind them to do as he said. "Thank you again, Mr. Holmes. You don't know how much I appreciate it."

"Of course, sir," Sherlock smiled. "And our condolences," he nodded sympathetically.

After they left, Sherlock and John got in the car and waited for the other officers to lead them to the precinct.

"I'm impressed Sherlock," John said. "You treated him with respect."

"Don't think that I've had a sudden change in mannerism. I didn't say that to be polite."

"…What?"

"You know how I am. I would treat the king of England with such respect."

"Then…"

"It was an experiment. John, really, after the Caesar investigation, I would think that your deductive skills have improved. I guess I was wrong."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_"The key to growth is the introduction of higher dimensions of consciousness into our awareness."_

_-Lao Tzu_

* * *

John kept asking what the experiment was for, but Sherlock would challenge him to figure it out himself. He decided there was no point in pursuing it any further, so he stopped pressing the subject.

Sherlock and John arrived at the Sacramento Police Department with minimal complications, even though Sherlock insisted on driving. It was small, compared to NSY. Sherlock certainly wasn't impressed.

The officers from the Capitol drove off after they made it to the front doors and announced their arrival to the front desk. The two were left to wait for the detective in charge of the case.

"An American detective…" Sherlock said bitterly, "I'm sure he won't be much help."

"Sherlock…"

"Right, right. I shouldn't jump to conclusions before I've even met him," he said mockingly.

"It's true. Maybe—"

One of the officers called to them from the hallway for them to enter. As they stood, Sherlock turned up his coat collar.

With impossibly low expectations, Sherlock entered the office first, with John following behind him. The man at the desk was putting away a book, replacing it on a small shelf behind him.

"You're _reading a book_ while there's a serial killer loose in the city?!" Sherlock exclaimed before saying anything else.

The detective was obviously taken aback by his sudden outburst, but he smiled politely, "I like to read—helps me think," he tapped his finger to his temple. He stood and held out his hand to Sherlock, but still kept it close to himself, "Detective Emmett Greene. It's nice to finally meet you, Mr. Holmes. I've heard a lot about you."

Detective Greene was average looking, perhaps in his mid-thirties. His hair was short, dark brown, with a slight wave. Based on the stubble around his chin, it looked like he was either growing a beard or hadn't shaved.

Sherlock didn't say anything, so John stepped in, "Sorry, Detective. He can be…well…"

"No, it's okay. Governor Hale warned be about him," he stage-whispered to John, trying to lighten the mood.

"Thank you for having me, Detective Greene. Now…shall we—"

"Yes. You probably want to work on the case," he went behind his desk to retrieve a few files, "Please, sit."

John sat in one of the chair, but Sherlock continued to wander around the office. When Greene noticed, he set down the files and folded his hands on the desk.

"So, Mr. Holmes, they say that you can tell a person's life story just by looking at them."

Sherlock turned to him, "…Does news spread that fast?"

"Well…"

"Well, what?"

"Come, on. I'm curious."

Sherlock scoffed and walked up to him. After a few moments, he spoke up, "Your wife divorced you a few months ago, you have two sons, you played the clarinet when you were in school, you're nearly blind in one eye, and you sleep with your mouth open."

Greene looked from Sherlock to John a few times before letting out an exasperated, "Wow…"

"Well? Are you convinced?"

"How did you know all of that stuff…?"

Sherlock sighed, but continued on with his explanation, "You have pictures of your family on your desk, but they're just your children, your wife either not in the picture or torn out of it, suggesting finalization, therefore, divorce. The most recent one is with you and your sons, based on the time stamp, so you have custody, or at least partial custody. And since these pictures were taken only a few months ago, your wife left not far before that point. Then the clarinet…you still play it, based on the curvature of your fingers. The index and thumb are straight whereas the pinky is naturally curved, indicating the natural placement on the instrument, and its intensity suggests years of playing. The electrical outlet to the side of your desk…you frequent it, but there are scratch marks, so you have trouble plugging anything in because of your lack of depth perception. Not only this, but when you held out your hand to shake mine, it was still abnormally close to your body, so you couldn't tell you far to reach. The edges of your front teeth are slightly transparent, resulting from the oxidation while you're exhaling, and since you're not breathing from your mouth now, you do it in your sleep. Did I miss anything?"

John rolled his eyes as Greene sat awestruck. "H-How…"

"Did I miss anything?" Sherlock insisted.

"What? Oh—yeah. Uh, my wife. I didn't divorce her…"

"Ah…was she the one who—"

"She died," he said shortly.

There was a beat of awkward silence, but John nodded apologetically to Greene, who clapped his hands, "Well, enough of that. It really was incredible, Mr. Holmes, but we should get to work."

Sherlock smiled politely and sat down beside John. "I have the general details. Three victims, each with a different modus operandi. The parchment with the numbers, have you deciphered them?"

"No. We're still working on that."

"Then there's the leather. Was there any found at the crime scenes?"

"No. Witnesses say that it was just the smell. You know how distinctive it is."

"Then what progress _have _you made?"

"…We're sad to say…not much."

Sherlock sighed. "Why don't we start with the governor's friend by the river."

"What? Why there?" John asked.

"The governor is anxious. And we have sufficient information. Detective Greene, did you ever find a fishing boat on the river?"

He furrowed his brow, "No, I don't think so."

"But witnesses say that he was fishing. Tell me, why would you buy a 20,000—what are they, dollars?—fishing boat…which I'm assuming is a lot…and not use it? The boat has to be somewhere on the river. It's a fine place to start."

"Wait, why do you think the boat will help us?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Detective, how did Allan Carr die?"

"He drowned."

"Right. We need to know how and why he fell out of the boat _and _why he couldn't swim to save his own life. Being an experienced fisherman, he had to have known how to swim. Do you not look at such obvious questions, Detective?"

Greene sighed. "Let's go then. The body is at the morgue, but the scene is still preserved."

As they left the office, John continued to apologize to Greene for Sherlock's behavior.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

_"Life is like the river, sometimes it sweeps you gently along and sometimes the rapids come out of nowhere."_

_-Emma Smith_

* * *

The Sacramento River flows through most of Northern California, and Sacramento is home to the south end of it. Before they banned salmon fishing, the population of anadromous fish diminished significantly due to overfishing. Now, they allow fishing in some areas after repopulation. Since then, fishing in the river grows more and more popular.

This is what Greene told Sherlock and John on the way to the crime scene. The water was also calm, he said—perfect for aspiring fishermen.

After wading through shallow water, they came to a patch of the shoreline, marked by strips of yellow barricade tape.

_The only entrance from this side requires a trek through shallow water._

There were only a few officers keeping watch, and investigations had ceased. They preserved the scene so Sherlock could see it when he arrived.

"Here we are," Greene announced. "Off you go."

Sherlock paced, scanning the area. He figured that any evidence had been removed from the scene, but he still wanted to look.

There was an outline of a body at the edge of the water, made with white tape. His arms were at his sides, so he must have been floating on the water for a while. There weren't any bloodstains, but if there were, they would have been washed away by the tides. Nothing unusual.

He checked the immediate vicinity. Rows of shrubbery lined the area, secluding the shoreline. The only other access point was the shallow water they had to tread through from the opposite shore.

"Were there any broken branches or twigs around these bushes?" he asked Greene.

"What?"

"Bushes, like trees, but smaller. Branches…broken? Over here," he said bitterly.

Green sighed, "No, I don't think we checked. The killer didn't have to come to the scene because Carr was already dead. Besides, why would he go through the bushes when he can come this way?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Do not assume such simplistic explanations are the _only _explanations. If your investigations were more thorough, you wouldn't have had to bring me here."

"Sherlock…" John warned.

Sherlock ignored him and proceeded to examine the shrubs. "Detective, the paper in the victim's hand…was it wet?"

Greene paused before answering, "No."

"Then the killer had to plant it_ after_ the victim washed ashore. He came here…and then he left…"

"Wait, if he killed the guy on the river—"

"Shut up, John."

"Sherlock—"

"John, _shut up_."

"You don't need complete silence to look for broken branches."

"Have you ever tried?"

"Sherlock, if he killed him on the river, then he had to be with him somehow."

Sherlock turned around to face John, "What do you mean?"

"Unless we're talking about the Loch Ness monster, then he had to have been on the guy's boat or a different one. I'll put my money on the latter."

Sherlock, not having found anything in the bushes, considered John's theory. "He had a boat…"

"Mr. Holmes, we didn't find any boats around here," Greene said.

Sherlock looked up, "Yes…don't you think that's strange?"

"Not really. The killer could have taken them."

"Them? So you think the killer had his own boat?"

Greene paused, "Well, it makes the most sense. Witnesses say that Carr was alone."

"Which witnesses?"

"Some people saw him at his marina by his shop. They saw him leave alone."

Sherlock nodded. "So, the victim leaves on his last voyage in his fishing boat and sails up the river. He encounters another boat—the killer. Something happens…Carr drowns, but we don't know how. Then the killer tows Carr's boat away and disposes of it. He then follows the body in his own boat as it drifts off. When it washes ashore, he plants his signature and sails off."

Both Greene and John agreed. "But we still have to figure out the in-between part."

"And in order to do that, we need to find the victim's boat."

"W-Why the boat?" Green asked.

"I don't know. It could tell us _something_."

"Then we better start looking," John suggested.

* * *

Greene issued a search party for the missing boat while Sherlock and John left for the morgue. Greene gave them incredibly vague directions to the hospital, but after asking for directions, they arrived.

When they told the front desk who they were, they gained access to the morgue easily. Once inside, a pathologist introduced herself and led them to Carr's body.

"Allan Carr, male, 46. Drowned—"

"Yes we know. Could I also see the victim's clothes?"

"Wh—uh, sure," she said dubiously. Once she left, Sherlock and John were left to examine the body.

They pulled the sheet back to reveal his face. John stepped in.

"Lots of scratches and bruising. Looks like he was beaten around pretty hard…mostly after he died."

"The result of drifting lifelessly along the river. What else?"

John pulled the body to its side carefully. "Bruising around the back of the neck—"

"What?"

"Look," he pointed to the dark spot on his neck, "He wasn't strangled, or the bruising would be all around, but something must have hit him. And it must have hurt," John winced. "This had to have been made by a really heavy object, or he was struck with a considerable amount of force…"

"What could be the result of this type of injury?"

"Well, I mean, it wouldn't paralyze you, but it would hurt."

Sherlock rubbed his eyes, "This isn't making any sense! Why would the killer aim for the neck and not the head? He must have wanted to render him unconscious, but—" he moaned.

"There has to be a logical explanation, Sherlock. There always is."

"Wait…wait…"

John looked at him expectantly, "I'm waiting."

"In order to get in such close proximity to the victim, the killer had to be in the same boat, right?"

"Well—yeah, I guess."

"But the witnesses said that he was alone."

John thought about this. "Then…how did the killer—wait, he either got on the boat while they were on the river or the two boats were close together."

"The latter is more likely. But—wait…"

John sighed as Sherlock zoned out again.

"If they were so close together, then how did Carr not notice the killer holding a heavy weapon?"

"Well, he was turned around. If he struck him on the back of the neck, then he couldn't see the weapon."

"Yes, but before that. If they were close, then they saw the contents of each other's boats," Sherlock paused to see if John reacted. When he didn't, he continued, "Don't you see? The weapon was kept on the boat, so the killer had to hide it in plain sight."

John shook his head, not knowing where Sherlock was going with this.

"The weapon…it was a piece of fishing equipment."

John shrugged. "O-kay."

Sherlock sighed, "Maybe the killer originally wanted to bludgeon him to death, but when he missed his target, he resorted to drowning—hmm, that doesn't make sense…"

John remained silent as Sherlock sat down.

"The weapon…what sort of fishing equipment could produce this sort of bruising?"

John shrugged again, "I dunno…a long stick? Fishing pole?"

"No, too pliable. Something sturdier…"

"Well, the only other think I can think of is a harpoon, but I don't think there are any whales in the Sacramento River."

Sherlock stood quickly. "Who says there aren't whales in the river?"

"Well, it's unlikely. I mean—"

"There's a delta that leads to the Pacific Ocean—"

"Wait, how do you know that?"

"Research. That's beside the point. Whales could lose their way and end up in the river. Smaller whales, of course."

John sighed. "Okay, that's great and all, but what do whales have to do with this?"

Sherlock sat for several minutes, but came up with nothing.

"When they find the boats, we'll know."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

_"Information is not knowledge."_

_-Albert Einstein_

* * *

On the way back to the precinct, Sherlock got a text from Greene.

_We're still looking for the boats. May take a while. Why don't you go back to your hotel and I'll see you tomorrow? - Greene_

"How did Greene get my phone number?" Sherlock asked himself.

John shrugged, "Mycroft."

_I have a theory. SH_

_It can wait till tomorrow._

_No, it can't._

_Yes it can._

Sherlock sighed.

_Shouldn't you have a sense of urgency?_

_I think you misinterpret comprehensiveness for apathy. These things take time._

"Lestrade was never this slow," Sherlock said, giving up.

"Yeah, well…"

Mycroft had already given them directions to their hotel, so they didn't have an incredibly difficult finding it. John agreed with Greene-the theories could wait. He needed to sleep.

When they arrived, they proceeded to the front desk, where they checked in successfully. After they were finished, they found the elevator. There were two lifts, one up and one down. As they waited for the one going up, the other door opened, revealing the man who was standing inside. Sherlock sighed aggravatedly to himself.

"Hey! Wow, what a coincidence…" Mr. Caraway exited the elevator and tried to shake Sherlock's hand, who refused.

"It's funny that you're staying here," he kept talking, even though Sherlock was overtly impatient. "I'm visiting my mother-in-law here...she's visiting from Oregon."

Sherlock nodded as the elevator doors opened, letting them enter.

"Oh, well, it was good to see you again, sir," he said as he held the elevator door open. "My name's Tim, by the way...Tim Caraway. But I bet you already knew that," he laughed.

"Good night, Mr. Caraway," Sherlock said as he removed Caraway's hand from the doors and allowed them to close. He punched the button that he thought was correct (the numbers were chipped off, so he couldn't read them) and stood patiently.

"Who was that?" John asked.

"I met him on the plane...well, rather _he_ met _me_."

John nodded, still confused.

"Nothing to be bothered with...just another annoying American," Sherlock assured him.

When the doors opened, they began to search the corridor for the correct rooms.

"Our room numbers are…" John paused as he checked the papers, "506 and 507. All of these rooms start with fours."

"Impeccable observation, John."

"But this is the fifth floor, isn't it?" he turned back to direction of the elevator, bewildered.

"Well, then we must be mistaken," Sherlock said as they made their way back to the lift. Once inside, they examined all of the floor numbers.

"Look, the lobby is the ground floor, then it goes directly to the second floor," John noted. "Where's the first floor?"

"Lost in the American void, I suppose," Sherlock said as he pushed the correct button.

"I bet they call the ground floor the 'first floor'. Then our first floor is their second floor."

Sherlock massaged his temples, "I hate this country."

* * *

Once they found their rooms, Sherlock immediately entered his to review the case files again. He began with the first victim, skimming some of the unimportant details:

_Ronald Griffin...Male...54_

_Cause of Death: Loss of blood_

_Twelve stab wounds…_

_Body was found on the Amtrak Railroad at approx. 5:50 AM._

_Potential motives not found._

_Additional notes: 5:00 departure was cancelled due to scheduling. The next train was to leave at 6:00 AM that morning._

Sherlock considered this. It meant that there weren't any trains due to cross the path of the body until 6:00 that morning. That means that he was killed at some point between the last trains and the 6:00 train. He looked to see if this information was in the file, but it wasn't. He moved on to the next case:

_Freda Cain...Female...79_

_Cause of Death: Severe cranial laceration_

_Found at home by daughter at approx. 5:40 PM. _

_Murder weapon (axe) found at scene. No fingerprints._

_Potential motives not found._

Sherlock initially presumed that the victims were random, but he was finding the crimes to be very specific. He moved on to the last file:

_Allan Carr… Male…46_

_Cause of Death: (Forced) Drowning_

_Found washed ashore by kayakers at approx. 1:20 PM._

_Bruising found at the back of the neck._

_Witnessed leaving marina in fishing boat alone._

_Approx. time spent in water: 5-7 minutes._

_Additional notes: Boat was never retrieved._

Sherlock had experience with serial killers. He knew that all of their murders followed some sort of pattern, no matter how obscure. Whether it be the victims, the modus operandi, or the location, they always followed a regiment.

None of these aspects were related to each other. They were completely and utterly random. But Sherlock knew that this couldn't be. There was a pattern that, perhaps, only the killer could see.

But, of course, there was one thing that serial killers tend to forget: if they can see a pattern, so can Sherlock Holmes.

Unfortunately, Sherlock was still unsure about any possible conclusions. Perhaps the most perplexing element of this case was the killer's signature. He turned back to confirm the three numbers appearing on each piece of paper found at the scene:

_42...77...565…_

Sherlock rearranged the numbers in his head, trying to make sense of them. There was nothing of any significance that he could find at the moment.

When it came to serial killers, not only was there a pattern, but there was also connectivity. Each aspect of their crimes were usually related somehow. Sherlock decided that in order to solve one aspect of the murders, he would first have to solve another.

* * *

Sherlock could hardly ever sleep, and this night was no exception. He reviewed the information in his head over and over again, absorbing it. His train of thought was interrupted by a text alert from his phone. When he picked it up to see who it was, he groaned.

_You awake? - Greene_

_No. SH_

_We have another body._

There was a long pause on Sherlock's end.

_Where?_


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

_"Trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ."_

_- William Shakespeare_

* * *

It was dark outside, but that didn't keep the Sacramento police department from investigating the fourth murder.

Sherlock and John were already at the crime scene, escorted by Greene. They had artificial light surrounding the area, careful not to damage any potential evidence.

Greene explained a few details:

The body was found here, in his own pool, behind his house. He was floating, face-down, in the water, a bullet in his back. He lived alone, but was apparently have a few visitors for the holidays.

"Holidays?" Sherlock asked.

"Thanksgiving," Greene reminded him.

Sherlock shrugged.

"Nevermind."

His parents and sibling were visiting, all living outside of the city save one. All of them claim that they were gone or asleep during the time of the murder.

Based on the size of the house, the owner was obviously well-off. Wealth, Sherlock noted, was a definite motive for most crimes.

The paper was found on the edge of the pool, away from the water. It read '162'.

Sherlock couldn't examine the body well enough, since it had drifted to the center of the pool. He did, however, test the water with the tips of his fingers-icy.

"The water is cold."

"Well, that makes sense," Greene commented, "It's almost December."

"Yes...then why was he swimming?"

Greene frowned, "Not sure."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Neither do I, but I think that this questions should be considered with utmost priority."

"Why?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He paced the edge of the pool, stepping through crunching, dried leaves. The pool contained similar pieces of dead leaves and twigs.

"He hadn't used the pool in a while," Sherlock thought aloud.

"Probably because it's almost Decem-"

"Yes, yes, thank you Greene. I think we've established that."

John started to apologize, but Sherlock interrupted him, "John, could you check inside the house? Look for any signs of forced entry? Thank you."

He started to turn, but something caught his eye. "Sherlock…"

"John, please, I need to-"

"It's that guy from the hotel."

Sherlock turned to the direction John was facing, only to find that Tim Caraway was standing at the other end of the yard, talking to one of the officers.

"Oh, God no…"

John slapped him on the back, "I'll leave you to it then," he said quickly, and walked off to investigate inside.

Greene could see that Sherlock was glaring at Caraway. "That's the guy who found the body."

"Detective, what was the victim's name?"

"Dan Caraway."

Sherlock closed his eyes. He would usually call this a coincidence.

With permission from Greene, he was able to ask Caraway a few questions.

"Tim Caraway?" he asked when he approached him.

When he turned, his eyes were red, and his breath was shaky. But when he saw Sherlock, his eyes widened. "Y-You…?"

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions."

"You," he swallowed, "...you work with the police? I thought you were from England."

"Well, right now, I'm in America. Now, how were you related to Mr. Caraway?"

"He was-my brother," his voice cracked.

"When did you find the body?"

"Uh, I dunno...around midnight."

"What were you doing up so late?"

"I was coming home from the hotel, remember? I-I was visiting my mother-in-law-my sister's husband's mother-and then my car broke down on the road. I had to call a tow truck, and it took them a while to get there. When I finally got home, I rested a bit as I waited for my car. Then I noticed that no one was around-usually Dan was up and about late at night. I walked around to the back, just to check. The doors here, leading to the yard...they're glass. So when I walked past them, I saw him-" he stopped, tears welling up in his eyes.

"Where was the rest of the family?"

"Oh, uh, well, let's see…our parents were asleep upstairs, my sister and her husband were out on the town, and his mom was at the hotel. As far as I know, Dan was here all day."

"Where are they now?"

"Inside."

Sherlock nodded. "Why did you visit your mother-in-law so late at night?"

"I got off work later than expected, but she still wanted me to visit."

"What were you doing in England?"

"Business."

"What kind of business?"

Caraway paused before answering, "I work for an advertising agency, and my client is working with a company in London. I went with a few other business partners, but they stayed for a few extra days. I wanted to come home early for Thanksgiving."

"What is this 'Thanksgiving'? Is it an American holiday?" Sherlock asked, bewildered.

"Uh...yeah, it's American…"

"I guess it's not important," he said as he scrutinized Caraway for another moment. "Don't you think it's strange? We meet on the plane, then the airport, then the hotel. Now this...I'd say it's more than a coincidence, don't you think?"

Caraway laughed weakly, "I dunno, man. I think it's pretty weird, but I don't think it means any-"

"Are you sure you're telling me the whole truth?"

Caraway's brow furrowed, "O-Of course."

Behind Caraway, Sherlock saw John at the glass doors leading into the house. He was motioning for Sherlock to come inside.

"Right, thank you. Excuse me."

He stepped past Caraway and made his way to the house.

"I was looking around, found that the security system was hacked, no signs of forced entry. The family didn't have much to say-by the way, why was that guy there?"

"Brother of the victim...found the body."

John nodded, "Crazy coincidence, isn't it?"

"Quixotic," he said dismissively.

"Anyway, I did find the library…" John led them down a short corridor before entering a small large room lined with bookshelves.

The first thing Sherlock noticed was the overwhelming stench of leather. Upon further examination, he found that most of the book were leather-bound.

"Remember when Mycroft said that all of the witnesses said they smelled leather when they found the body? Well...I'd say this fits that description."

Sherlock didn't hesitate retrieving Caraway from the yard. He pulled him into the library, against Greene's insistence that he stay.

"Mr. Caraway, did you happen to notice the smell of leather when you found the body?"

"That's an odd question…"

"Just answer it."

Caraway seemed to recall the incidence, "You know, I did smell something, but I don't think it was leather."

Sherlock sat down in one of the chairs and closed his eyes.

"Maybe the first three were just coincidences…" John suggested.

"'Coincidence'...'coincidence'...that word has turned up quite a bit, hasn't it? It was coincidence that I saw Mr. Caraway three times before now. It was coincidence that only three of the four witnesses could smell leather. It was coincidence that the governor of California just happened to be friends with one of the victims. John...there is nothing coincidental about this case."

"Alright, then. Do you have a solution?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He, instead, retreated into his mind palace.

* * *

**If you'd like to see an illustration of said mind palace, message me or let me know in the reviews. It's a frustrating process, and it seems that the only way I can give anyone access is directly :P It's not as artistic as it is the show, but it summarizes the information gathered thus far. I would suggest it...gives some hints:)**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

_"A room without books is like a body without a soul."_

_- Cicero_

* * *

Sherlock didn't tell anyone that he suspected Caraway. It made perfect sense in his head, but he wouldn't be able to present any proof.

His alibi was solid. According to his passport, he was England for the past two weeks. The murders began during his time abroad.

Nevertheless, Sherlock was convinced that he had something to do with all of this. He didn't believe in coincidences.

Sherlock also decided that the presence of both vellum and morocco leather was no coincidence either. Both materials went hand-in-hand. The question was not 'how', but 'why'.

Each modus operandi was completely different, and he figured that the next would also be meaningless. As the police are desperate to find a pattern, Sherlock realized that there wasn't a pattern at all.

They were truly and utterly random.

But then, of course, serial killers aren't random. Whoever it was had a reason for committing these crimes, and Sherlock had to find this reason.

* * *

John was sitting in Greene's office, hoping to speak with him about Sherlock's theory about the murder of Allan Carr. Instead, the detective kept him waiting, but allowed him inside.

As he waited, John looked around at the various photographs and knick-knacks scattered about. It looked more like a home office than it did a detective's.

Behind the desk, John found a small bookshelf, holding several books. _The Great Gatsby, Romeo and Juliet, Crime and Punishment_, and a few other classics. All of them were read and reread, based on the torn and battered front covers. The detective obviously loved to read.

"Do you like to read?" a voice said from behind John. He whipped around to find that it was Greene, leaning against the door frame. He stepped back from the shelf and stood next to the desk.

"Er-yeah. But I don't get much time to read nowadays," he said.

Greene nodded. "Honestly...I think that everyone would be better off if they just picked up a good book," he said as he walked over to the shelf.

"W-What do you mean?"

Greene flipped through one of the books, "Nothing. It's nothing..."

He set the book down and sat in his chair. "So, Dr. Watson, what did you want to talk about?"

John sat in the chair across from Greene, "Sherlock was examining the body of Allan Carr, and we found some bruising-"

"Around the back of the neck...yes, we knew about that."

"Did you ever find out what it came from?"

"No. The medical examiners determined that it was from an incident days before his death. Completely unrelated."

"But-"

"What did Mr. Holmes have to say about it? We should consider every possibility."

"Well, he thought that, initially, the murderer struck him on the back of the neck just before he died."

"But why would the killer aim for the neck, not the head?"

"That's the big question."

"Maybe he was originally going to bludgeon him to death. Did you find a weapon?"

"No. Did you find the boat?"

"You think the weapon was on the boat?"

"It's the only possibility, really."

"It would have taken something fairly heavy to produce a bruise like that."

"That's what we said. We...presumed that it was a harpoon of sorts."

Greene paused with a bewildered expression, "A _harpoon_?"

"Haven't there been sightings of whales in the river?"

"Well, yeah, but I don't think anyone goes whaling."

John shrugged, "It was just a theory."

"We never did determine how Allan Carr died. Sure, he drowned, but how?"

"Assuming that it was forced, there must have been a struggle."

"Oh, there was definitely a struggle."

"W-Why do you say that?"

"We found the boat. Floated down the river. It was cap-sized."

John's eyes widened. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"I was just informed. That's where I was before I came in here. I planned to tell you and Mr. Holmes immediately."

"So, there was just one boat?"

"Just one. They're still looking for the other one, but again, we don't even know if there _was_ another one."

"I'll call Sherlock. Where is it?"

* * *

Sherlock, John, and Greene were standing before the victim's boat, cap-sized, rammed between two rocks near the shore.

"It traveled far from its owner," Greene said. "I'm assuming that the killer tried to take it as far away as he could."

"Yes..." Sherlock muttered.

"Have you looked at its contents at all?" John asked.

"No. We wanted to wait for you guys."

Sherlock started towards one end of the boat, but Greene stopped him, "It's a big boat, Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, I can see that."

"We can lift it. I'll call-"

"It's a very large boat...isn't it?"

"...Y-Yes."

"Very large..."

"A-Alright, I'll just...be right back," Green murmured as he walked off, his phone in his hand.

Sherlock began to scan the underside of the boat. John came up behind him, "What was that about?"

"The size of the boat? Just an observation..."

John sighed. "You know, if there had been anything in the boat, it would have fallen out."

"Yes, I realized that."

"Then...do you really expect to find anything?"

"No."

John's brow furrowed, "Then-"

"You can be incredibly slow sometimes."

"..."

"Oh, stop. What's the first thing that comes to your mind when you look at this boat?"

"Uh...it's...big?"

"Exactly. You-"

"They're on their way," Greene interrupted as he put his phone in his pocket.

"I don't need to see the rest of the boat. We're done here," Sherlock announced.

"...What? But-"

"I think we're done for today," he smiled politely. He then started for the car, John following behind.

Greene was left on the shore alone as sound of the car engine faded in the distance. When he was sure that they were gone, he called off the search.

He wandered back to his own car, glad that Sherlock decided against examining the boat. He sat, wondering what to do. One of his books lying on the passenger's seat; he picked it up, opening it from the bookmark. He turned on the overhead light and began to read.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

_"The moment there is suspicion about a person's motives, everything he does becomes tainted."_

_- Mahatma Gandhi_

* * *

"Mr. Holmes...come in. Sit down."

Sherlock and John entered Greene's office. Unlike their last visit, there were stacks of papers piled on his desk, all askew, precariously balanced among one another.

"I know you didn't want to check out the boat, but I went ahead and did it myself. We didn't find much, but…" Greene trailed off as he reached for a bag in one of the drawers, "...we got this."

Inside the plastic evidence bag was a brown, leather wallet.

Sherlock picked it up and examined through its transparent container.

Regularly used, but empty...travelling?

"Owner?"

"No ID."

"Fingerprints?"

"Still working on that."

"Probably just the victim's." John said. "It was his boat."

"But why would it have been necessary to bring a wallet at all? If he had, then it would have stayed in his pocket, unless he had a reason to take it out, which he wouldn't have."

"So you think it belongs to a second party?"

Sherlock paused before answering, "No need to jump to conclusions, Detective."

An officer opened the door behind them and peered in. "Sir...it's another one."

Greene stood immediately, "Where?"

"21st street...that architect place."

"On our way."

* * *

It was Boulder Associates Architects, a high-end company specializing in modern architecture. Despite their reputability, the building they worked from was a small, brick building, with nothing particularly architectural. It was out-of-the-way, with a small bus stop and a few trees outside.

Inside, it was certainly more stylized, but no one paid much attention to the building. Sherlock scanned the first room for a body, but didn't find one. He pushed through the crowd of officers and paramedics, and soon, John followed behind him. Greene called to them, "He's still alive!"

When his words registered, Sherlock came upon a group of paramedics huddled around a gurney. As they wheeled it away, Sherlock caught a glimpse of the victim: a boy, no older than ten, with blood-soaked hair and a lifeless body. His chest would rise and lower rhythmically, indicating that he was still breathing.

John sighed with relief. "He made it."

Sherlock smirked. "The killer's first mistake…they always make one."

"Sherlock…"

"He left a victim alive."

"Yes. Now this kid gets to live. Why don't we celebrate for a change?"

Greene stepped towards them, "They think he'll survive," he said, grinning. "He's going to the hospital...he's in no condition for questioning. I'll show you where he was found," he motioned for them to follow him into a short corridor. They were handed gloves before they entered a small office.

There was a blood stain on the carpet, marking where the victim landed when he was-

"Attempted cause of death?" Sherlock asked.

"Tried to smash his head in. With what, we don't know."

The blood stain marked where the victim landed when he was hit, but it wasn't enough to kill him.

Why didn't he strike again?

On the floor, an arm's-length away from the blood, was a piece of vellum. It read '181'.

He saw one of the investigators pick up a pair of glasses from the floor and carefully place them in a plastic bag. At his feet, he could see small shards of glass-the glasses were broken. He assumed that they fell off when the victim was knocked over, and in the struggle, were stepped on.

"Whose office is this?"

"The victim's father's. He works here."

"And he found his son?"

"Yep. He went to the hospital with him. I think we should give them some space for a while."

"Name?"

"James Harper is the father, and his son is Aaron Harper. And guess what?"

Sherlock turned his head to Greene, with a look of mock curiosity.

"They're from across the pond, too!" he said, failing to successfully mimic and English accent.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John pulled Sherlock to the other side of the room, out of earshot. "Don't you think that there's something-"

"John, we don't have time for speculation."

"No, just-listen. These scenes...the murders...there's something...I dunno...surreal about them, don't you think?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Like...it's like this weird feeling of deja vu."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "John…have you-"

But before Sherlock could finish his sentence, his eyes flicked to the window, which looked out to the front of the building: the bus stop. A bus had pulled up, and when the doors opened, he saw Caraway step out and onto the pavement.

Sherlock quickly asked Greene for the wallet he had found in the boat and ran off with it. Greene called after him, but Sherlock was nearly out the door. He stopped abruptly, calmly exiting the building and headed towards Caraway.

When he saw Sherlock, his eyes widened again, "Mr. Holmes?"

"Mr. Caraway...could I ask what you were doing on the bus?"

"I was...just coming back from the funeral. My car is still in the shop. Wh-What are you doing here?"

"Is this your wallet?" he asked as he held it up.

"Oh my God...yes, uh, where was it? I've been looking for it since yesterday," he took it from Sherlock's hands.

"Yesterday?"

"Yeah...uh...where's all of my stuff?"

"It was empty when we found it."

"'We'?"

"It was found in a fishing boat."

"Well...I don't fish-"

"The boat of a murder victim, Mr. Caraway," Sherlock said simply.

Caraway didn't react at first. He slowly slipped the wallet into his pocket and glared at Sherlock.

"I was in England, Mr. Holmes. You saw me. This has been missing since yesterday. How could my wallet have been in America while I was in England?"

"I never said I suspected you."

"But you do suspect me, don't you."

"...Yes."

Caraway groaned. "I've had enough of your-"

"Sherlock?" John interrupted from the front entrance, "Seashell...there's a seashell in the office."

"Wh-John, I'm in the middle of an interrogation."

"Seashell. In the office. Huge."

"So?"

"Fingerprints."

"John, if you would speak in complete sentences, that would be immensely helpful. Whose fingerprints?"

John held up his finger and pointed at Caraway.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

_"What state do you live in?_

_Denial."_

_- Bill Watterson_

* * *

"This isn't an arrest, is it?" Caraway asked as he entered the interrogation room back at the precinct.

"No...we just have a few questions," Sherlock said, trying to sound assuring.

After the discovery of the fingerprints, Caraway was taken in for questioning. Sherlock and Greene were to be present, while John watched through the one-way mirror.

Caraway was seated in a uncomfortable folding chair, Greene took the desk chair, and Sherlock took a rolling chair. Caraway was fidgeting already: clasping and unclasping his hands, slicking his hair back, and licking his lips.

"How's your family doing, Mr. Caraway?" Greene asked, "I couldn't imagine how hard it must be…"

"We're still...we're doing better," he answered.

"Did you enjoy your stay in England?" Sherlock continued.

"Yes, actually. Very much."

"Good," Sherlock smiled.

"Did you hear about the murders while you were over there?"

"No. To be honest, I don't really pay attention to the news, no matter where I am," he laughed.

"Then, you had no idea that your brother was the victim of a serial killer...initially."

"No. That's why…" he trailed off.

Greene leaned forward, "Why...what?"

Caraway sighed, "Nothing, it's just...I thought…"

"Mr. Caraway, we need you tell us the truth."

"_I am_! If you think that I had anything to-"

"Sir, we're not accusing you of anything. We just want to hear your side of the story," Greene said as he wrote something on his notepad.

Sherlock suddenly sneezed.

"Tissue?" Greene offered.

Sherlock shook his head, "Mr. Caraway, if you could elaborate a bit more, that would be most helpful."

"Alright. I'll tell you my side of the story...if that's what you're asking."

Greene nodded, "That's a good place to start."

"I left for England two days before the first murder, I found out later. I came back the day after the third. As I said, I don't really look at the papers or the news, so I didn't know about the serial killings."

"Did your family tell you anything?"

"No. I'm guessing that they didn't know about it either," he said simply. Sherlock could see that he was starting to sweat. "Anyway, it wasn't until I found my brother, and the police came and told me."

"Can you prove that you were in England?"

"Wh-yeah, of course. I have m-my passport, my plane tickets, and my co-workers can vouch for me. I can tell you how to contact them-"

"That won't be necessary. If you were in England during the third murder, how did your wallet show up at the crime scene?" Greene asked.

"I already told Mr. Holmes...I had it in England with me. I lost it the day my brother died."

Greene glared at him, "Sir, I'm afraid that's impossible."

"I swear to God, I-"

"Why don't we come back to that," Sherlock stopped him. "You're aware that your fingerprints were found at the scene of the fifth murder, right?"

"Yes. You're friend...the short one-" Caraway said, resulting in a muffled "Oi!" from John, who was still in the observation room, "...he said they were on a seashell. Weird, right?"

"Preposterous. We found the seashell-" Sherlock sneezed again.

"You okay?" Greene asked.

"Yes, fine. We found the seashell in the victim's father's office, the scene of the attempted murder."

"How do you know it was attempted murder?" Caraway asked, sounding curious.

"A piece of vellum was found, like all the others," Greene answered for Sherlock.

"What did it say?"

"We can't tell you."

Caraway leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms defensively. "Why would my fingerprints be on a seashell? Did you ever think about that?"

Sherlock sighed. "Murder weapon. Obvious."

"Was there blood?"

Before Sherlock could answer, Greene interjected, "Yes."

Caraway seemed to stiffen and clenched his jaw. Sherlock glanced at Greene. He had given Caraway false information. There wasn't a drop of blood found anywhere save the floor.

There was a beat of silence before Sherlock spoke up, "Mr. Caraway...could you explain to us why your fingerprints were found at the scene of an attempted murder?"

"_I don't know_," he insisted.

Greene stood, motioning for Sherlock to follow him out of the interrogation room. Caraway waited, seated in his chair.

They found John in the observation room, his arms folded, and a crease on his forehead.

"Well?" he asked when the two entered.

"Not sure," Greene said as he rubbed his eyes with his knuckles.

"Why did you lie?" John wondered, more to himself as he looked at Caraway.

"Standard procedure. Sometimes, when you present false evidence, the suspect will start to get nervous, and is more likely to crack under the pressure. It's all psychological."

"I think it worked," Sherlock remarked.

"But you know," Greene said to both of them, "all of this evidence we have against him-the wallet, the prints, the location-it all seems...planted."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well-" Greene began, but was interrupted by a loud sneeze.

"Sherlock, are you sure you're okay?" John asked.

"I'm fine. It would have been impossible to plant the wallet, first of all. He must be lying about the day he supposedly lost it."

"We can't forget," John commented, "that he was in England for the first three. It's virtually impossible for him to have committed those crimes."

"Then...what do we do? Does that vindicate him?"

"No one is innocent until the guilty party has been identified," Sherlock said, sounding raspy.

"Sherlock, I think you're getting sick."

"I don't get sick."

"Everyone gets sick."

"I told you, _I'm fine_."

"I'm gonna let Caraway go," Greene stated simply. "There's no point in keeping him here while he has the best alibi you could have."

"What?" Sherlock was still convinced that Caraway had something to do with this.

"Sorry, Mr. Holmes. I just can't keep him here," he shrugged as he entered the room again to tell Caraway.

Sherlock sniffled, "Well…"

"We should get you some medicine. I think you're catching a cold," John said in a professional tone.

"No I'm not! _I'm fine_!"


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

_"Understanding is the first step to acceptance, and only with acceptance can there be recovery."_

_-JK Rowling_

* * *

"Here you go," John said as he gave Sherlock a pill and a glass of water.

"Thanks," he replied, but his throat was so scratchy that it was barely audible.

It was the morning after Caraway's interrogation, and Sherlock had woken up with a severe cold-or at least as severe as the common cold can get.

Sherlock swallowed the pill quickly and drank most of the water, "This water," he whispered, "...it tastes funny."

"No it doesn't."

Sherlock placed the glass on the nightstand and collapsed on the bed. "I don't know what's wrong with me, John."

"It's just the cold."

"I think I've been infected by some exotic parasite."

"You'll get over it in a few days," John assured him. "Just rest for today, and drink plenty of water."

"Greene texted me. He said that the victim is ready to talk to us."

"Already?"

"Wait...maybe it was his father...I don't remember. Something like that. They're at the hospital."

"Well, we can't go if you're sick. It'll...have to…" John trailed off as he saw Sherlock's expectant expression.

"No, it can wait till tomorrow,"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and smirked.

John sighed. "Do I need to bring the laptop again?"

"No. I have an audio recorder."

John chuckled. "You brought an audio recorder?"

"I stole it from Greene."

"Why?"

"He annoys me."

"...Where is it?"

"On the table, by my suitcase," he pointed to its general location.

"Okay, well," John said as he grabbed his coat and put the recorder in his pocket, "don't talk too much, and take another pill in six hours...if I'm not back by then, which I probably will-"

"Just go. I'll be fine."

John sighed as he left the room. It wasn't until he was in the lift that he realized that he didn't know where the hospital was.

* * *

_"Tim! Hey, how's it going?"_

"Hey Scott."

_"Did you have a good Thanksgiving?"_

"Uh, well, yeah...sorta…"

_"We're just wrapping up over here. We'll be back in a day or two."_

"Great...great…"

_"You okay? You don't sound so good."_

"Heh...You'll never believe where I just came from."

_"Yeah?"_

"The police department. They interrogated me and everything."

_"Woah! They finally caught ya, did they?"_

"No, no. It wasn't-"

_"I told you before we left...you should have stopped after three-"_

"Scott! I got out, okay? It wasn't an arrest. It was just a questioning."

_"Oh...well that's good."_

"You know, never mind. Just come back and see how horrible it is over here."

_"Wh-What do you mean?"_

"It's all over the news. Haven't you seen it?"

_"N-No. Is it bad?"_

"All hell has broken loose."

_"What happened?"_

"..."

"I don't think this is something to discuss over the phone. I'll tell you when you get back."

_"WHAT?! No, man. Now you _have_ to tell me! C'mon! Don't leave me hang-"_

Caraway hung up the phone before his friend could finish his sentence.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

_"Serious illness doesn't bother me for long because I am too inhospitable a host."_

_- Albert Schweitzer_

* * *

"James Harper?" John asked as he entered the hospital room.

The man seated next to the bed twisted around to see who it was. "Y-Yes. Can I help you?"

"Dr. John Watson," he said, keeping his distance as he saw the state of his son. "I'm with the police."

Harper stood, "You want to ask some questions?"

John nodded. "Just some routine stuff, if you don't mind."

"Okay...um...I don't want to wake him...could we go outside?"

* * *

Sherlock tried to see through the fog clouding his vision as he blinked it away. He must have dozed off.

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. There was a small, white pill next to a bottle of water on the nightstand, evidently left by John.

There was a dry, mucky taste in his mouth, so he swigged nearly a quarter of the water. When he stood-hoping to make a cup of tea-he wobbled in place, still disoriented from sleep and illness. He shuffled over to the small kitchenette and found a tea bag.

"Gross, artificial. How American," he grimaced.

* * *

John and Harper were seated in chairs placed along the corridor, just outside Aaron's room.

"Could I ask how you found your son?"

Harper faced his son's room, avoiding John's glance. "My son was supposed to meet me at work after school was out. I had forgotten that it was a short day today, so he came by earlier than I expected. I was out having lunch. I found him when I came back. He was still conscious. I called 911 immediately."

"Was there anyone else in the building when you came back?"

"I don't know. If there were, then they were in their offices. I didn't see anyone."

"Did you notice anything...unusual in the office? Besides...you know…"

"Not really. I was panicking. I didn't look around too much."

"What about the seashell in your office? Is that signifi-"

Harper turned his head to face John, "The what?"

"Seashell-big, white conch-"

"Heh. I don't have any seashells in my office."

"...What?"

"Unless Aaron brought it home from school, then I don't know what a seashell was doing in my office."

John shifted his chair, confused by this new information, "Mr. Harper...when do you think your son will be awake?"

"Uh...the doctors said another half-hour or so. Do you want to talk to him?"

"If that's alright with you."

"Sure…" he turned back to the door, "that's fine."

John glanced at Harper. As he looked away, John felt a sudden sense of...familiarity. He had seen that face before.

"Sorry...er...do I...do I know you?"

Harper turned to him, skeptical, "Wh-What?"

"It feels like we've met before."

Harper seemed to scrutinize John, looking for the same sense of acquaintance. "I don't think so."

* * *

Sherlock sat on the bed with his tea, sipping it slowly. The artificial sweeteners provided by the hotel were disgusting. But he drank it anyway. He couldn't really taste it that much.

He looked at the nightstand beside the bed:

_Three drawers, one lamp, one phone, one directory…_

He opened the top drawer:

_One phonebook, one Bible._

And the second:

_Nothing._

And the third:

_One television guide._

He opened the top drawer again, finding its contents to be the most interesting. First the phonebook:

_Boring._

The Bible was the same. He never really understood religion.

John was out on a case...he was sick...stuck in an American hotel room.

'_Go to America_' they said.

He replaced the books the drawer and flopped down on the bed.

'_It'll be fun_' they said.

* * *

Just as Harper said, his son was awake about half-an-hour later. John dragged a chair over to the bed and sat next to Harper. Aaron was still groggy, but he was conscious.

"Aaron?" Harper said softly. "It's dad."

"Hey dad," Aaron replied weakly as he realized who it was.

"Aaron, this is John. He's gonna ask you a few questions, okay?"

The boy turned slightly to look at John, but winced when his head shifted with him. Gauze was wrapped around his whole head, small bloodstains peppered on the back of the fabric.

"Hello Aaron," John said, kindness in his tone. He leaned forward so the boy could see him comfortably.

"Hey."

"How're you feeling?"

"I'm okay...are you British?"

John smirked, "Yes. Yes I am. Have you ever been to England?"

Aaron looked as if he was going to say something, but paused, his mouth open. Harper seemed to nod to his son before Aaron responded, "No. But I'd like to."

"I'm visiting America to work with the police for a while. I'm here to find out who hit you on the head."

"Really? Then...then are you going to put him in jail?"

"I sure am. You just have to tell me what happened yesterday."

"In...In my dad's office?"

John nodded.

"Well...I don't remember much. I walked into my dad's office after school, but he wasn't there. I put my stuff down, then something hit me from behind. I tried to run, but the guy was blocking the door."

"Did you call for help?"

"I was too scared."

"Did you see the man's face?"

"No. He was too tall."

John made a note of everything Aaron was saying.

"Then...I think he hit my head again. Then I fell. Next thing I knew, my dad was next to me, asking me if I could hear him. Then he called someone. I don't remember anything after that."

John drew a long breath. "Do you know what he hit you with?"

Aaron visibly shivered. "I didn't see that either."

"Did you happen to bring a white seashell home from school?"

"A what?"

Harper interjected, "A white conch. Like the one in _Lord of the Flies_. Remember that? Did you bring one with you from school?"

"N-No."

John looked at Harper, confused, "_L-Lord of the Flies_?"

"Yeah...we read it together a few weeks ago. He loved it."

"I thought Simon was really nice," Aaron commented. "Then he died. It was sad."

John chuckled. "Gosh...it's been ages since I've read that."

* * *

Sherlock approached the concierge in the lobby, desperate for something to occupy himself.

"Do you have any books? I'd like to read a book," he asked, raspy.

"Books? I'm sorry, but I don't have any with me."

Sherlock leaned in, "Yes you do."

"No, sir, I'm afraid I don't. There's a book store just down the road."

"Paper cuts on fingers, unreplaced bookmark-left in a hurry to conceal from…guest? No, manager. Dust jacket underneath stack of papers. Introverted. Quote by JRR Tolkien on paperweight. Bookworms don't leave home without a book on hand."

She sat, her mouth hanging slightly open.

"I'll give it back," he said as he held out his hand.

The concierge sighed, bent down from her chair to reach her bag, and pulled out a copy of _The Great Gatsby_.

"Thank you," he grinned.

* * *

John entered the lobby just as he saw Sherlock leaving the concierge desk.

"Hey!" he yelled, running up to his friend, "You're supposed to be resting."

"I got bored."

John looked at the book he had in his hand. "_The Great Gatsby_?"

"Surprisingly, I've never read it."

"Well, that'll have to wait," John began as he led Sherlock to the elevator, "I talked to the Harpers. Turns out that neither of them knew about the seashell-"

"...The...what?"

"Seashell. Office. Remember?"

"Ah, yes," Sherlock nodded his head. "What about it?"


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

_"I never made one of my discoveries through the process of rational thinking"_

_― Albert Einstein_

* * *

Sherlock lay in bed with his book, struggling to keep his tired eyes focused. John sat in a chair by the window, typing on his laptop.

"Hungry?" John asked.

"I've lost my appetite...as if I ever had one."

John stood and found a menu on the table for room service. "I might get some biscuits. Sure you don't want some?"

"Gatsby isn't his real name," Sherlock said, putting the book on his lap, still open, "Perhaps because he wanted to escape his past?"

John ignored him and ordered some biscuits.

"John, this is a very interesting work of American fiction. I'm impressed."

"I've never read it."

"You can borrow it when I'm done."

"It's not yours!"

"So?"

Greene stood above the two bodies before him, lying next to each other in a pool of blood. The rest of the investigators were scattered around the room, taking photos and gathering evidence.

The detective reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He considered calling Sherlock, but paused, and his stomach turned.

_The note…there wasn't a note…_

He wouldn't know if this was one of the serial killings.

_Damn._

Greene asked one of the officers if they found a scrap of vellum, "No. These appear to be suicides, sir."

"Yes, it seems like it, but we have to be sure."

"Yes, sir."

The detective pulled out his phone again. He was told that he could only call Sherlock if it was to investigate the serial murders. He wasn't a consulting detective in America, the governor had told him.

But Greene was convinced that this was related, though he couldn't tell anyone else. He texted Sherlock.

* * *

John opened the door and met the room service attendant, who was carrying a plate of rolls.

"Sherlock Holmes?" the man asked, looking at a piece of paper on the tray.

"Yes?" Sherlock called from the bed.

"A plate of biscuits, as requested," he said as he handed John the plate.

"Wh-"

"Would you like-"

"Wait, these are rolls."

"Yes...they're biscuits, sir."

"No, no. Like...uh...they're sweet."

"Would you like some honey?"

"No. I don't know what you call them...they're sugary, usually with icing."

"Wh-cookies?"

John sighed. "Yeah, sure."

"I'm sorry, sir. I'll be right back with those."

"American lingo is strange, isn't it?" Sherlock commented as John closed the door.

Sherlock's phone beeped, indicating a text message.

_Two bodies. Verona Marina. - Greene_

"Two more bodies, John," he said as he closed his book and reached for his coat.

"No, you're still sick."

"What?"

"You'll feel like a wreck if you go out. Why don't I go?"

"No. I need to go. That's why we're here."

"I conducted an investigation with Lestrade while you were off having drinks with Moran. I think I can handle one crime scene, thank you."

Before Sherlock could argue, John grabbed his phone from him to see where it was. "You can have the...'cookies'."

Sherlock scoffed, "Fine. Call me when you need help-"

"If. If I need help."

"Don't die."

"No promises."

After John left, Sherlock flopped back down on the bed, determined to finish the novel.

* * *

"Dr. Watson? Where's Mr. Holmes?" Greene asked when he saw John approaching.

"He's not feeling well. I'm just here to check it out."

"Oh...alright."

"I-Is that okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's fine. You know...that might be better."

"Why's that?"

"We're not exactly sure if this was our serial killer."

"...Then why did you call us down?"

"I just want to be sure. The only reason was the absence of the numbers. We may have missed it, though."

"Where are they?"

"In that little fishing lodge," Greene said, pointing at a small building sitting slightly inland on the shore of the river. The marina aside from it was lined with boats containing sufficient supplies of fishing equipment.

John was surprised by two victims, a double homicide. They were both young adults, one man and one woman. They were lying close to each other, the woman slightly on top of the man. A knife was stuck in her stomach, her hand curled around the handle. The man bore no such injury.

"It looks like suicide, but based on what we've gathered, they had no motives."

"What about him?"

"Not sure. We're assuming poison."

"Our very own Romeo and Juliet," an officer murmured behind them.

"W-What?"

The officer turned to face them, "_Romeo and Juliet_? Shakespeare?"

"Yeah, yeah, we've heard of it."

"Well, it's just…" he waved his hand dismissively, "Never mind." He walked out before John could ask him more about it.

"He's always coming up with crazy theories like that," Greene said. "They're hardly ever right."

* * *

Sherlock was typically a fast reader, and he found himself close to The Great Gatsby's conclusion. He was convinced that Daisy was the one driving the car…

* * *

Greene had left the lodge to discuss something with the district attorney, and John was left with a forensic investigator.

"The detective is convinced it's part of that serial killer business," he said as he took a sample of blood. "He's definitely keen on catching the guy."

John knelt down next to the bodies, "What do you think is going on here?"

The investigator shrugged, "I dunno."

John looked out the window to be sure that Greene was out of earshot. "What do you know about the detective?"

"Not much. He likes to keep to himself. I think I met his wife once. He reads a lot, too."

"That's right...he had a wife. Do you know how she died?"

The investigator looked at him with wide eyes, "What? No, man. She's not dead. Just divorced. I met her before-"

"What? But-"

"Why? Is she dead?"

"I-I could have sworn...he told us that she was…"

* * *

Sherlock was right. Daisy was driving the car. But then Tom betrayed Gatsby.

_Oh dear. This could get messy…_

* * *

John paced the room. He was looking for any indication that this was the killer's doing. He glanced out of the window at Greene, who was still talking to the attorney. When he couldn't find anything in the front room, he wandered around the other rooms.

Upstairs, ambled through the hall, and he came across a small table against the wall. On it, he found a vose with a few wilted flowers along with overturned picture frames.

* * *

Sherlock was on the (proverbial) edge of his seat as Wilson approached Gatsby's property. He knew that he wanted retribution, but would he really kill Gatsby?

* * *

John looked at the pictures through the broken glass. They must have been slammed into the table.

The first was of the two victim's downstairs. One or both of them must have lived here.

The next few were of people he didn't recognize.

The penultimate picture was of a woman embracing two young boys.

The last was of the same woman with the same boys, but there was another man with them.

* * *

Sherlock felt a sudden wave of deja vu as he read the pages documenting Gatsby's final moments of life.

_These scenes...the murders...there's something...I dunno...surreal about them, don't you think?"_

_What are you talking about?_

_Like...it's like this weird feeling of deja vu._

He looked up from the book, trying to remember where he had seen this same scenario.

* * *

John hid the final photo under his jacket as he hurried downstairs. Just as he reached the ground floor, Greene walked through the front door.

"Hey-wh-what were you doing up there?"

"Just looking around. Excuse me," he said quickly as he stepped past Greene and out the door.

"Dr. Watson! What's wrong?"

_Did you happen to bring a white seashell home from school?_

_A what?_

John hurried to his car, careful not to let Greene follow him.

_A white conch. Like the one in Lord of the Flies. Remember that? Did you bring one with you from school?_

John's heart rate had picked up again-the same feeling he had had before. The kind of sinking feeling when you're right on the edge of a cliff, about to jump.

_N-No._

* * *

_I haven't made use of the pool all summer._

Sherlock reviewed the details of the murder of Jay Gatsby.

_Shot in the back._

He looked down at the page he was turned to...the one on which Gatsby is declared dead. When he did, his stomach twisted in realization.

_Of course..._

* * *

John felt his hands beginning to numb as he drove back to the hotel. When he released them from the steering wheel at a stop sign, he found that he was visibly shaking.

The photo was placed on the passenger's seat, the face of the fourth man staring at him.

_Our very own Romeo and Juliet._

_He's always coming up with crazy theories like that. They're hardly ever right._

John could almost feel the pieces of the puzzle slowly coming together.

_Honestly...I think that everyone would be better off if they just picked up a good book._

_W-What do you mean?_

_Nothing. It's nothing…_

* * *

Sherlock nearly knocked the bedside lamp over reaching for his phone. He texted John with tingling fingers and eagerly waited for a response.

_Come back to the hotel. NOW. -S_

Impatient, he texted him again.

_It's important. -S_

After a few moments, his phone beeped.

_Coming._

Just then, John entered the room.

"W-Wow. That was-"

"You won't believe what I've found."

"You won't believe what_ I've_ found...well, actually, you will, since it's completely rational-"

John tossed the picture frame on the bed so Sherlock could see it. He shrugged at first.

"I found this at the crime scene. In the victims' house."

Sherlock looked up at John, incredulous. "But…"


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

_"While I thought that I was learning how to live, I have been learning how to die."_

_-Leonardo da Vinci_

* * *

John repeated everything he knew to Sherlock: Greene, his wife, and the books.

"Each murder is inspired by a literary death," Sherlock concluded. He tossed The Great Gatsby to John, a bookmark placed on page 162.

"162…wasn't that…?"

"The number found at the fourth crime scene…Dan Caraway's murder. Died in his pool, a bullet in his back. He was killed in the same way as Gatsby in the book."

"This last one I went to...a young couple appeared to have killed themselves: one was poison, the other stabbed herself. _Romeo and Juliet_."

"The number, what was the number?"

"There wasn't one. They couldn't find one."

Sherlock leaned back against the headboard, smirking.

"What?"

"What about the others?" Sherlock continued, ignoring John's inquiry.

"...Er..._Lord of the Flies_," John murmured as he proceeded to to open his laptop. "Hold on."

Sherlock stood over John's shoulder as he searched for libraries in Sacramento.

"What are you doing?"

"We need to go to a library. If we're going to-"

"No, we can't bring this to the police. Greene is obviously involved," he glanced over to the picture frame on the bed: Greene, his wife, and his two sons...taken one month ago. "If we bring this to him, we don't know how he'll react."

"Then what do you suggest?"

Sherlock sighed, "No...you're right. We should confirm our theory. Where's the nearest library?"

* * *

Greene was still at the crime scene, getting ready to leave.

As he got in his car, he couldn't help but worry about what John had found upstairs.

_I should have taken the pictures...why wasn't I more careful?_

He didn't get a chance to go upstairs to see if they were missing, but based on John's panicked exit, he had taken one. He massaged his temples, irritated with himself.

_I shouldn't have made it so obvious._

* * *

As John searched for _Lord of the Flies_, Sherlock asked the librarian about the other possibilities, listing off methods and situations that may sound familiar.

John flipped to page 181 when he found the book and skimmed it. It described a character named Piggy, a young boy who fell, and had his head smashed in by a boulder.

_Boulder Associates Architects. That's where Aaron was found._

He continued reading and found the description of a white conch...the kind found at the crime scene.

Taking the book with him, he ran to the front desk to find Sherlock.

"Did you find-" But before he could ask him, Sherlock was bounding towards the fiction section, his actions deliberate.

After a few minutes of searching, he motioned for John to follow him to a table, where he placed a stack of books with a thud.

"_Murder on the Orient Express, Crime and Punishment, Moby Dick, The Great Gatsby, Lord of the Flies, Romeo and Juliet_. Have I forgotten any?" he said as he took the book from from John's hands.

* * *

Greene was headed back to his apartment. He had to make sure that his sons were still with their mother.

He wasn't convinced that John had figured it out, but he had probably taken any information he had back to Sherlock, which meant that he would figure it out. And that wasn't really preferable.

* * *

"Agatha Christie's most successful novel," John said as he held _Murder on the Orient Express_. "Page 42…" he skimmed through the text until he found the correct passage, "'And now a passenger lies dead in his berth-stabbed.'"

"The victim was stabbed at least twelve times on the Orient, just like our first victim. The only exception-"

"He wasn't found on a train. It was the railroad."

"Why? Why couldn't he have waited for the train?"

"Maybe the victim didn't have an excuse to be on the train."

"Okay...then why not kill someone else who was on the train? He wanted to kill this man. This man was his one and only target."

"So the killer must have known him."

"Moving on. _Crime and Punishment_, page 77. 'He pulled the axe quite out, swung it with both arms'...yes, yes…'brought the blunt side down on her head'. But our murderer used the other side of the axe...why?"

"I dunno."

Sherlock sat back, considering this. "Perhaps using the blunt side was too...risky."

"W-What do you mean?"

"There wasn't a guarantee that the blunt side would be fatal, so he chose the more efficient end-"

"Sherlock…"

"But why? Why was it risky enough to go against the book?"

John picked up the next book as Sherlock continued thinking about it, "_Moby Dick_, page 565. 'Ahab stooped to clear it; and he did clear it; but the flying turn caught him round the neck, and voicelessly as Turkish mutes bowstring their victims, he was shot out of the boat, ere the crew knew he was gone.' He's talking about the whale, I think."

"The whale…Captain Ahab was passionate...obsessed with killing the whale. Sound familiar?"

"Carr was 'obsessed'."

"But what about the rest of it? The harpoon? The boat?"

"Wait...the bruising...like he missed his aim...it's just like the axe...he tried to use a blunt object, but-"

"He couldn't. A bad arm, perhaps? No. He stabbed a man twelve times. And tried to bludgeon Harper to death...he had another excuse."

"Next," John continued. "I think we went over _The Great Gatsby_ enough. _Lord of the Flies_ as well. _Romeo and Juliet_? _Verona _marina...the city it takes place in. No page number?"

"They died on different pages. But aside from that, he could have forgotten in his panic to conceal his identity," he said, referring to the picture of Greene.

"Wh-wait, you think…?"

"It's the only logical explanation."

"But-he's a detective!"

"Occupation makes no difference. In fact, it would make things much easier. He wouldn't allow the police to investigate very thoroughly...and the boat...did you notice how large the boat was?"

"Uh...yeah?"

"If they were really looking for the boat, I would guess that they would have found it very quickly, not wasting a few days. Especially from an aerial view, which they should have been using."

"...Oh my God…"

"Greene is also a bookworm, and I saw all of these books in his office, among others. These murders were all inspired by literary deaths."

"Wh-" John tried to refute, but it all made sense.

"The smell of leather...hmm...I don't have an answer for that...we'll have to ask him."

"...What?"

"We confirmed our theory. Now, we have to go to the police."

"..."

"We need to see Greene."

"But...we can't just tell a serial killer-and we don't even know if he is-that we accuse him."

"We don't have to tell him that we accuse him...we just say that we've figured out the pattern."

"You keep using the word 'we'...like we're going to do it together."

"Well...isn't that what we're going to do?"

"Well, I think that we should take it easy...have a plan B."

"What do you suggest?"

John shifted in his chair, "We...sorry, you talk to him in a safe place...somewhere public."

"Why should _I_ do it?"

John scoffed, "Because you're _Sherlock bloody Holmes_."

* * *

Greene sat in his chair, the apartment empty. He steepled his hands over his mouth, his elbows on his knees. He was beginning to feel nauseous.

_This can't be happening._

He knew who he was waiting for. Soon there was going to be a phone call...a text...asking him to talk. Then he'll have to confess. This wasn't his plan.

_I swear to God...this wasn't how it was supposed to be…_

There was a vibrating rumble coming from the table next to him. His phone was ringing. He considered leaving it, but ignoring it would make him seem even more guilty. He checked the caller ID before answering it.

"Detective? This is Sherlock."

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," he greeted him, trying to sound natural, "Feeling any better?"

"A bit, thank you. I was wondering...could I speak to you about the last murder?"

"Sure...what about it?"

"I'd like to speak to you in person. Is the precinct alright?"

"The-uh...no...I-I'm supposed to be doing some paperwork...and...if I have a meeting… I dunno…"

"It's alright. Where are you?"

"In my apart-" he stopped, realizing what he was saying.

"Ah, yes. Your apartment? Good, I'll meet you there. See you in a bit," he ended with mock enthusiasm.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

_"Only those books come down which deserve to last . All the gilt edges, vellum and morocco, all the presentation copies to all the libraries will not preserve a book in circulation beyond its intrinsic date."_

_- Ralph Waldo Emerson_

* * *

The door to Greene's apartment was unlocked when Sherlock arrived, the door open just a crack. Before entering, he peered inside to see where the detective was. He kept his hand poised by his gun as he stepped inside.

He was overwhelmed by the massive stacks of books lining the walls. Bookshelves were fitted into nearly every corner of the first room, all overflowing with paperbacks and hardcovers. On one side of the room was a sofa and a television, the other housed a desk, on which a smaller stack of books lay waiting.

Sherlock couldn't see if Greene was here, but since he had asked to see him, he had to have been somewhere in the apartment.

He glanced at the pile of books on the desk, all of which he recognized from their trip to the library, save one. The one book on top was flipped over, so he couldn't read the title.

There was a creak in the floor, to which Sherlock turned. Greene was standing in the entrance to the small corridor, leaning against the frame. "Mr. Holmes," he said in greeting.

"Detective."

"I see you've...noticed my...collection."

"Yes. Very nice," he stuffed his hands in his coat pockets.

"What was it you wanted to talk about?" his voice was shaking.

Sherlock pulled out the picture frame from his pocket and held it in front of him so Greene could see it.

He didn't react, his expression unfaltering. "That's my wife, and-"

"I know who it is."

Greene scoffed. "You surprised?"

"Sorry?"

"Ah, I knew you would figure it out."

"Figure what out?"

He paused, "The case. What else?"

"Oh, well, I haven't-"

"So tell me," he said, sitting on the arm of the sofa, "what's the pattern?"

"Oh...well," he trailed off.

Greene sighed, "You haven't. That's alright," he said dismissively. He offered Sherlock a drink, which he refused. The detective sat in his desk with a glass of wine in his hand.

"I couldn't help but notice these books," Sherlock referred to the ones on his desk.

Greene took a sip before saying, "Yeah. Some of my favorites."

"The Great Gatsby was superb, don't you agree?"

"A classic."

"I was especially impressed with the ending. I certainly wasn't expecting it."

"Yes, yes. One of the only elegant deaths I've ever experienced."

Sherlock looked at him, bewildered, "That was oddly put."

Greene smirked, "Just...commenting."

"Ooh, Lord of the Flies...another great piece of literature."

Greene shifted uncomfortably in his chair, "Incredible."

"I found the death of...oh, what's his name...Piggy to be very interesting. The death of the voice of reason."

"Symbolism at its finest," he said before swigging most of his wine.

"But Moby Dick...perhaps the greatest novel to ever exist."

"...The greatest?"

"The representation of the corruption of passion was so eloquently delivered."

"You...you mean Captain Ahab?"

"Yes, of course," he said weakly once he had finished his wine.

"Are you alright, Detective?"

"Yeah...yeah...I'm…" his eyes seemed to wander before landing again on Sherlock.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked, his voice filled with concern.

"_Shut up_!" he exclaimed as he slammed his glass on the desk. There were several minutes of silence, in which Sherlock's grin grew wider and wider, until Greene noticed his mistake.

"You bastard," he said through clenched teeth.

Sherlock scoffed, "You really thought I hadn't figured it out? That says a lot about your skills as a detective-"

"_SHUT UP_!"

Sherlock stood, "Why? Why did you kill all of those people?"

"...How did you…" he nearly whispered, his head down.

He slammed his hands on the desk. "You have to have a reason. Tell me!"

"How did you do that?" he looked up at Sherlock. "How did you…"

He held his hands behind his back, "It all psychological," he stated simply. "You should know that. Make the suspect feel welcome...be sure that he sees you as a friend, not an enemy. Once you gain his trust, he'll break...he'll confess. Honestly, I didn't think it would take only a few minutes. Maybe it was the wine. Does alcohol have an affect on-"

"_Stop_!" Greene demanded. "You…" his voice was shaking. "You...solved it?"

"Of course. It really wasn't that hard," he broke eye contact for a moment.

"The...the...books…?"

"Yes. That reminds me," he stepped back to the desk. "What's this one? Another-" he started to move his hand to pick up the book on top, but Greene's hand crashed down on the book, blocking the content on the back. He slowly looked up at Sherlock, his eyes glinted with a familiar insanity. "It's a surprise."

Sherlock lowered his hand as he kept a careful eye on Greene. He stepped away, headed for the door.

"No! No, you can't leave yet," Greene insisted as he stood. "Aren't you going to guess?"

"Guess?"

"Why I did it. I doubt you've gotten that far."

Sherlock scanned Greene quickly. He hadn't thought about a motive.

"Every killer's got one. What's mine?" he held out his arms, challenging him.

_Wife left him. Not enough of a motive to kill._

"You know, I looked you up before you came here," he crossed his arms and leaned against his desk. "Great stuff you've done…"

_Custody issues? No._

"I read over a few cases."

_This killer...he's not original…_

"243 types of tobacco ash? Impressive."

_He's not unique. He's a reflection...an echo…_

"I especially liked one of the first…"

_He's...an echo…_

"The one with-"

"Of course."

Greene stopped.

"How could I forget?" Sherlock murmured.

"What?" Greene asked anxiously.

"You're dying."

"..."

"Your eye...you can only see out of one. What is it…cancer?"

Greene seemed to slump over slightly, but he didn't say anything.

"Gone untreated, ocular cancer can be fatal. Your's is probably incurable and terminal."

Greene sniffed, "Five years ago. I'm coming to the end of the line."

Sherlock grinned involuntarily.

"No use in denying it. Any day could be my last. I haven't told anyone...not my family...no one knows. I've had five years to finish here...five years to decide what I really wanted to do."

"And that was...homicide?"

"No need to sugar-coat it," he said sarcastically. "I didn't want to kill anyone. The cancer's not the whole of it."

"Wh-What?"

"You're a sociopath, right? You probably don't understand human emotion too well," he shrugged, "You don't know what's going through my head."

"No...but I don't have to," he reached into his pocket and pulled out an audio recorder.

"I-Is that mine?!"

"Yes...yes it is," he said as he showed him the blinking red light. "And your confession is on it."

Greene smirked, "I expected nothing less. You're pretty good, Sherlock Holmes," he pointed his finger at him.

"I'm flattered."

"But you know...that doesn't mean that this is over. I can still take one more life…" he picked up the book from the top of the stack and flipped through it.

"What is that?"

"It's a great book," he said, still looking at the book. "Agatha Christie."

"Detective…"

"Great twist at the end there...did not see that coming…Have you read it?"

Sherlock only sighed.

"I'm afraid I'll have to spoil the ending," he flipped to the end of the book, trying to find a particular page. "Here it is…"

"What is that? Which book?" Sherlock demanded.

"There are some things...some secrets you will never know. Secrets taken to the grave," he tossed the book to Sherlock, who looked at the front cover.

It was _Curtain_, by Agatha Christie.

"No…"

"Hercule Poirot's final case. It's ironic, really. The ending."

"Detective...I don't know what you're pla-"

"The detective is the murderer in his final case...it's _genius_," he murmured as he opened a drawer.

"Stop. Stop whatever you're doing."

"Shut up," he snapped, his voice growing tired. "I knew that this would happen eventually...someone would figure it out. I thought I'd go out with a bang," he placed a bottle of sleeping pills on the desk before them.

Sherlock clenched his jaw. "This isn't-"

"Not only was Poirot the murderer, but he took his own life at the end."

Sherlock stepped closer, trying to take the bottle away, but Greene took it in his hand.

"It's actually kinda funny...how things work out like that," he smirked. "We're one and the same."

"Your kids...what about them? Living without a father-" he stammered, desperate to reason with him.

"_I don't care!_"

"Not enough to stay with your family...to see your sons again?"

Greene's face was turning red, his eyes welling up with tears. "Not anymore. This life is over, Mr. Holmes."

"N-"

"_I'm going to die_!" he sobbed, tears falling down his face. "_And I'm not going to let my damn eye kill me! I'm better than that_!"

Greene unscrewed the bottle of pills and tipped it into his mouth. Sherlock leaped forward, trying once again to grab it from him. But Greene stepped back, pulling the bottle from his lips. He was already chewing them.

"Greene…" Sherlock gasped.

"You did it, Mr. Holmes. You cracked the case...like you always do," he took the last handful of pills from the bottle and poured them into his mouth. Sherlock brought his hands down on the desk, his head lowered.

"I'm not proud of what I did, you know," he continued as he swallowed the last of the pills. "I never was."

Sherlock ignored him and took out his phone. He called an ambulance.

"Ah, ah. That's not going to help me anymore," he sat in his chair, tears still gushing from his eyes. "I'm going to die...I was going to die anyway," he worried his lip as he held back a sob.

Sherlock collapsed in his chair, realizing that the audio recorder was on the desk, the red light still blinking.

"I think it'll be peaceful," Greene mused. "I'll fall asleep...and never wake up...it's sounds nice, doesn't it?"

Sherlock remained silent, his hands shaking. There was nothing he could do. Greene was going to die.

"You were never going to tell them…"

"Well...maybe after I'm gone, they'll find out. I'm just glad…" he trailed off.

Sherlock looked up at him, "What?"

Greene twitched and coughed, his hands shaking. "I'm just glad that...that I didn't have to tell them."

He gagged, hurling over the side of the chair. He tried to stand, but stumbled to the side, but Sherlock caught him. He led him to the sofa, not sure what to do. As he lay down, his breaths turned to wheezing.

Sherlock stood and stepped back as Greene coughed and gagged. He walked to the bookshelves and kicked the side of one aggressively. He cried out, but not from the pain. He didn't want to watch this.

Greene called him over, but Sherlock stayed put.

"Sherlock," he whispered, too weak to say more.

"I can't help you."

"Don't tell them about…" he gagged again, "...don't tell them about me...about what I did," he wheezed.

Sherlock took a deep breath before saying, "Then what should I tell them?"

There was a long pause, and Sherlock thought he had died, but a feeble whisper escaped Greene's lips one last time.

"...I-I'm s-so-sorry," he gasped before his head fell limp on the pillow.

Sherlock knelt beside him and checked his pulse: slow. He was still breathing, but within the next few minutes, he would be dead.

He stood, his breath unsteady.

"_Curtain_…" he sighed.

* * *

Sherlock and John stood on the sidewalk outside Greene's apartment building. Police cars and a team of paramedics had arrived not long after Greene had fallen asleep, but by the time they reached him, he was gone.

The two were silent, neither sure what to say to this. After a few minutes, John spoke up, "Did you record it all?"

"More than I expected to, yes."

"You mean-"

"Yes."

More silence.

"Why did he do this?" John asked, more to himself than Sherlock.

"Perhaps we'll never know."

"What?"

"He wouldn't tell me anything, aside from the cancer."

"Then...we don't have a motive."

"No."

"...Wh-What about the smell of leather? Did he say anything about that?"

"He said that some things must be left unexplained. We may have to read between the lines to-"

"No...no, don't say that."

After Sherlock submitted the audio recording to the police, they were free to go.

"America has proven to be very interesting," Sherlock said as they walked back to their car.

"Didn't really turn out the way we expected."

"Plot twist."


	15. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

_"A man is like a novel: until the very last page you don't know how it will end. Otherwise it wouldn't be worth reading."_

_- Yevgeny Zamyatin_

* * *

After tying up a few loose ends, Sherlock and John began their journey back to London. On the plane, Sherlock explained some things that he had learned:

Greene had purposefully kept the rest of the investigative force from delving too far into the case. This included postponing the search for Carr's boat.

The scent of leather at most of the crime scenes was deemed a coincidence. Sherlock wasn't convinced, though he assumed that it was a red herring, along with the pieces of vellum.

Due to his lack of depth perception, Greene wasn't able to aim correctly, which resulted in the bruising on Carr's neck. He couldn't kill Harper because he missed his target. He used the other side of the axe so he wouldn't do just that. Why he continued to use this method for the subsequent murders remains unknown.

Greene's wife had known the family of the fishing lodge, but other relationships with the other victims have not been found.

Despite Greene's dying wish, his family was informed of his actions prior to his death. They were left alone, and Sherlock was never able to tell them what he said in person.

His motive is still undecided, and will probably never be explained. This frustrated Sherlock, understandably.

Upon further investigation, it was found that Caraway was a paperhanger, counterfeiting checks at at least three banks in both the US and England. He withdrew over two million dollars, and confessed that he would have stolen more.

Sherlock couldn't stand an incomplete case with so many unsolved variables.

"Maybe we have to read between the lines."

* * *

"Victim is Eric Cramer, 34, apparently on his way home from the bank," Lestrade explained as he guided Sherlock and John to the crime scene.

It had been two weeks since the case in America, and Sherlock and John were settled back in England. Lestrade had called them in.

"Cause of death?"

"We don't know yet. We're-"

"Asphyxiation," Sherlock stated simply.

"Er...yeah, that was our best guess,"

Sherlock knelt down beside the body, "Any suspects?" he noticed that someone had dusted for fingerprints, and was successful.

"Yeah," Lestrade walked over to the other side of the room and lifted a heavy box. "But that's not why-"

"Time of death?"

"About midnight. Sherlock this box-"

"Then, I suppose that this suspect doesn't have an alibi?"

"He claims that he does, but we're not so sure. This box is filled with-"

"This house is in close proximity with Scotland Yard."

"...S-So? Sherlock just look at this-"

"In fact, it's the only building in close proximity with this house…"

"_Sherlock_-"

"The killer couldn't have gotten away so quickly since the body was found directly after the killer left, and because you could have come within two minutes. Either it was the man who found the body, your 'suspect', or someone within Scotland Yard. Tell me, Lestrade, can anyone vouch for your whereabouts at midnight?"

"...Excuse me?"

"I'd just like to con-"

"_Sherlock_!"

Sherlock was surprised by the detectives sudden outburst. "What?"

"What the hell is wrong with you? You really think I did it?"

"I-I just-"

"No…" he held out his hand, his palm facing Sherlock, "No…"

"Detective-"

"Does this have something to do with that case in America?"

John coughed, purposefully answering Lestrade.

"It...might have-"

"Why would you think that_ I_ had _anything_ to do with this?"

"...Trust issues."

* * *

**That's it! Yay!:D Before I go off on the next story, I'd like to note that this last case that's mentioned in the epilogue will ****_not _****be part of the next story. Coming soon is a preview of the new case.**

**Thanks to everyone who took the time to read my stories, write feedback, and for just being a part of this! I never would have expected such positive critiques and a growing audience. You guys are the best!**

**~Pindergast**


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